


My Warships Are Lying Off The Coast (Of Your Delicate Heart)

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this were a real fairytale, it would end in a kiss, but that’s not how this story works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Warships Are Lying Off The Coast (Of Your Delicate Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for swagtastickatie at Livejournal.

Kendall gets the text message around three in the morning, an insistent buzz on his bedside table that snaps him out of the crazy dream he was having about Wayne Gretsky and Godzilla. He fumbles around in the dark for a little while until his fingers meet smooth plastic, the screen of his phone slick beneath his fingers.  
  
It takes him three tries to read the text correctly, and then another five to make sure that he _is_ in fact reading it correctly. It’s from Logan, and it starts out with _Hey, sexy_ , and then goes on to say that he would very much like to make Kendall moan.  
  
…  
  
Kendall may be half gone from sleep, but he figures out pretty quickly that Logan probably meant to send the text to Camille. He files away the information that Logan’s kind of kinky into the back of his mind, because he never knows when shit like that might come in handy, and then- with hazy eyes and a smirk tugging at his lips- he texts back.  
  
 _Sure, baby, sounds great_.  
  
Kendall’s just buried his face back into his pillow and is drifting off again when the phone buzzes. _Kendall?!_  
  
Kendall rolls his eyes. He’d really like to go back to sleep now, thanks. Still, he doesn’t turn down opportunities to tease his friends mercilessly, so he punches in, _You mean my name’s not sexy anymore?_  
  
Logan’s response is immediate: _Don’t be an ass._ There’s a pause, a moment where Kendall is about to turn his phone off, and then Logan adds quite unnecessarily, _Ignore that text!_  
  
Logan’s so uptight.  
  
He really needs to loosen up.  
  
Hmmm.  
  
Mischief glinting in the back of his mind, Kendall types, _I would, but now I’m all wound up. What are you going to do about that?_  
  
He doesn’t expect a response, or if he does, he’s thinking it will be one of a number of four letter words. Kendall’s pretty sure that he’s sufficiently mortified Logan into silence, and for the longest time, the phone is in fact quiet. So quiet for so long that Kendall actually manages to fall asleep with it clutched in his hand, and it isn’t until morning that he sees he’s got two new messages in his inbox.  
  
The first Kendall reads in what he imagines is Logan’s prissy, sarcastic voice. W _hat do you want me to do about it?_  
  
Only, he’s not sure how to take second message.  
  
… _I’m really good with my hands_.  
  
Kendall writes it off as a fluke, something caused by the late hour and sleep deprivation. It’s not like Logan brings it up over their morning cereal, or in school, or in the studio. Life is as normal as it ever gets for them, and Kendall is perfectly capable of ignoring the curiosity that tingles up his spine every time he glances in Logan’s direction.  
  
But once night falls, and he’s tucked away beneath the covers of his bed, it’s harder to push out of his mind. He can’t fall asleep, fingers twitching at his side, and before he even fully understands what he’s doing, his finger is punching send.

  


_\-----------_

_How good, exactly?_  
  


\-----------

  
Once upon a time, there was a little prince. He lived in a land where the sun never stopped shining, a place touched by gold. And for most of his childhood, he was happy.  
  
Now, the little prince had an uncle, a close advisor to his father. He was a man who brought joy and light into the world with every footfall, every quirked smile. He was the heir apparent to the whole golden kingdom, and whatever he touched shone, as it should. But that uncle also had a terrible secret, a love so sick and sinister that it poisoned his veins. The little prince’s father would not even speak of it out loud, too ashamed, too frightened. He thought that if he named the thing, it might grow in power, as dark magic tends to.  
  
One day, that terrible secret brought the king’s trusted advisor to a terrible end. So sick with sadness and grief were the king and the queen that they moved far, far away from their kingdom of sunshine and happiness and love. They found a new castle in the middle of a wasteland, a big empty place with haunted walls and hallways that howled with the wind, like monsters come calling in the middle of the night.  
  
The little prince tried not to be scared, because now the whole kingdom rested upon his shoulders.  
  
“Don’t disappoint us, son,” said the king, and every single time, the little prince felt those words all the way down to the soles of his feet.

  


\-----------

  
_I could make you scream my name._  
  
Kendall stares at the phone for a long, long time. He rubs the heel of his hand over his truant cock, just to remind it that this is a joke. It’s supposed to be funny.  
  
He bites his lip until he draws blood.  
  
He does not text back.  
  
The following morning, Logan leans over him to grab the cereal box. His collarbone brushes against Kendall’s shoulder, his breath misting past Kendall’s ear. The close contact is familiar, comfortable. But it also sends sparks like fireworks skidding across the surface of Kendall’s skin.  
  
 _I could make you scream my name._  
  
Kendall can’t get that text, backlit by the glow of his phone, out of his mind. He tries to put some space between his body and Logan’s, slumps down when the other boy lingers, prompts, “Logan.”  
  
Logan glances at him sharply. He finally, slowly lifts the cereal box away and comments in a low, intimate voice, “Louder than that.”  
  
Across the table, James looks confused. Carlos isn’t paying attention.  
  
But Kendall knows exactly what it means.  
  
That night, he’s barely beneath his covers before he’s writing, _You might have to use your mouth._  
  
His fingers shake as he types it out. What is he doing? This has gone beyond mock flirting. He’s borderline sexting his best friend.  
  
Maybe Logan is still kidding around.  
  
Maybe he doesn’t actually understand that he went too far with that one, with the image Kendall has painted across his mind of Logan’s hands, Logan’s fingers, Logan’s knuckles framing his cock.  
  
Maybe…  
  
The phone buzzes, the vibration gentle. Kendall’s almost scared to look, but he has never been much for letting fear dictate anything he does.  
  
 _You’re underestimating my hands._  
  
Well.  
  
 _Can’t I have both?_  
  
Seconds later:  
  
 _Now you’re just being greedy._  
  
Kendall grins a little, considers, and then writes without thinking, _I’m all about reciprocation._  
  
It’s only after he’s hit send that he realizes the implications, hands and teeth and touching. The text isn’t even particularly naughty, but the promise laced in it is evident.  
  
Logan says, _I’m holding you to that_.  
  
Logan says, _Your lips would look great on my cock_.  
  
Logan says, _You’re a tease_.  
  
Is he? Kendall doesn’t know. But he’s got his hand inside his pajama pants, and he tells Logan he doesn’t like to tease, talks about how he would swallow him down and then who would be screaming whose name?  
  
 _Prove it._  
  
Kendall delivers a rather x-rated description about Logan cumming down his throat, the visual so steamy in his head that he’s stroking up and down his cock, light at first, garnering interest that turns heavy and thick once Logan begins describing what he’d do in return.  
  
At one point, the vivid explanation pauses, and Logan asks, _are you touching yourself_?  
  
Kendall won’t lie. _Fuck. Yes_.  
  
 _Me too_ , Logan admits, _I’m close_.  
  
Kendall has to agree. When he finishes in his pajamas like he’s still going through puberty, hot white molding to his hipbones and plaid, Logan’s name perched on his lips, Kendall thinks that he’s not sure what this is.  
  
The only thing he’s really got a handle on is that now, at least, they’ve both gone too far.

  


\-----------

  
The castle halls were cold. They felt like ice.  
  
The little prince was colder. He shivered beneath his covers, clutched a flashlight and read old bound books and hoped the words might warm him from the inside out. It never really worked.  
  
The king’s eyes were the coldest thing for miles.

\-----------

  
It’s their third night of fucking around, and they’ve been flirting back and forth since one.  
  
Texting.  
  
Sexting.  
  
Whatever.  
  
Kendall’s been talking about taking the two of them in his hand, stroking their dicks against each other until they are sweaty and sticky and loud with it. Logan’s said some things back about how _hard_ he is, about Kendall _taking it like a little bitch_ , and for a second Kendall has to stop and make sure he hasn’t been texting James this whole time, because _Logan_ saying _that_ is sinful and delicious, all at the same time.  
  
It’s well past three now, and Kendall’s got twilight twinkling around the edges of his gaze, a sort of hazy sparkle that is luring him to sleep, but he’s also got his palm laying heavy across his cock. He’s hard up and wondering if they’re really making a _thing_ of this, if it’s actually going to be something they _do_ now.  
  
He doesn’t really think that he’d mind.  
  
That’s about when the door creaks open, and Kendall’s first instinct is actually not to move his hand from its sure grip around his dick, but rather to stuff the telltale glow of the phone under his pillow.  
  
Like anyone will even come close to suspecting what he’s doing with it.  
  
He needn’t have worried. Logan stands in the doorframe, light a silver halo around his body. It reminds Kendall of the first time he met Logan, back in Minnesota when they were eight years old. Then he was this frail, tiny thing, scared of his own shadow. On a normal day, Kendall wouldn’t have even looked twice at the kid, but on that particular afternoon, Logan wore a halo of sunlight, burnished, like a crown. It’s the first time Kendall ever remembers thinking another boy could be beautiful.  
  
Logan takes a step forward, those hands of his shoved deep in the pockets of his drawstring pajama pants. His big, dark eyes are watching Kendall, equal parts impishness and fear, that bemused look he gets when he knows that they’re about to do something bad, but also knows he’s going to go through with it anyway.  
  
Kendall sits up. He croaks, “Hey.”  
  
“H-hey,” Logan breathes, voice breaking a little. All that exists between them is space, thickened with a thing Kendall doesn’t know how to name. He wants to say _something_ , to crack a joke and lighten the mood or maybe just ask what they’re both playing at. But the atmosphere is so tense that he thinks if he speaks, he might break some kind of magic spell.  
  
With Logan watching him like that, Kendall is pretty damn sure that’s the last move he wants to make.  
  
Logan takes another step forward, shutting the door to the room so carefully that the click is inaudible. And then he meets Kendall’s gaze again, long and hard and blazing. Words tumble from his mouth, raw, but definitely an order. “Get naked.”  
  
Kendall lets the command sink into his skin and trickle through his blood, accompanied by a thrill of pleasure. Logan doesn’t usually take charge outside of the classroom, but right now he is staring at Kendall with greedy eyes, all the light in the room gathered around him like a held breath.  
  
Kendall gets naked, and quickly.  
  
At first he feels a little stupid about it, sitting there sans a single article of clothing while Logan drinks him in, mouth gaping open. Kendall wants to lick the corners of his lips, the places where moonlight makes Logan glow. He watches, practically salivating as Logan shrugs off his white sleep shirt, a slow show that reveals the shape of his nipples, the muscle bunched tight in his abdomen. He wears the late hour on his shoulders, all his angles turned fuzzy, and the only sharp thing about him when he pads forward, predatory, are his eyes, cutting into Kendall like razor blades.  
  
He’s in the middle of pushing down his pants, catching around his thighs when he reaches the side of Kendall’s bed, and Kendall reaches out, hands on Logan’s bare hips. He helps, fisting the material before shoving it down, eyes trained on the red swell of Logan’s cock. His mouth is dry, Sahara-like, and his nerves prick like cactus needles. He glances up, checking to make sure that Logan’s not about to break his face, punch him in the mouth like every fucking sane hetero guy would, but Logan is just standing there, watching right back. He bends down, touches his lips to Kendall’s too soft, prince charming coming to rescue Sleeping Beauty, and Kendall opens himself up to it. He licks into Logan’s mouth and pulls him closer, until Logan’s dick smears precum across Kendall’s sternum, and Kendall’s own interest is a twitch near Logan’s knee. Logan rearranges, slots himself onto Kendall’s lap, pushes Kendall back onto the bed like a knight taking a damsel, and Kendall goes, willingly. He lets Logan guide him, because Logan is cosmic, fire in his eyes, smile dazzling. His hands are every bit as clever as promised.  
  
Kendall does not know how to keep control of this situation, could not, even if he wanted to. Logan is too much for him to handle; too good, too close, too magnificent. His fingers dip between the crevices of Kendall’s ass, his tongue conquers his mouth, and his dick is a persistent pulse between them.  
  
They are both high on the power play of it, on the danger of discovery and the shape of each other’s bodies. They slide against each other, fumbling at first, before they figure out that if they lace their fingers, work over their dicks together- Logan’s mouth latched onto Kendall’s throat, Kendall moaning into the sweet, soft fluff of Logan’s hair- it works better. Kendall presses bruises into the skin of Logan’s bicep, and Logan imprints his teeth in the hollow between Kendall’s shoulder and collarbone, and between the two of them they build this nameless thing, friction that feels like writing the bridge of a song, like everything clicking right, finally.  
  
Their feet are tangled, their knees knocking together, and Kendall flips them, trying to grind down to find the right angle against Logan. Logan, who laughs, loud and feral, calls him an _eager fucking whore_ , and uses his free hand to trace the shape of Kendall’s hipbone.  
  
Kendall takes it as a challenge, forces the rhythm to change, to speed up, all so he can see the shadows on Logan’s cheekbones flicker and change, his control breaking to pieces. Logan doesn’t let go so easily, smart, even in the bedroom, and so much more confident here than Kendall has _ever_ seen him before. He bites Kendall’s lip, twists his hand just so, and oh, _oh_ , fuck. Kendall sags against him and lets Logan take over, guiding the both of their hands, tightening their grip. He can feel Logan’s smirk pressing into his cheek, can feel the semi-victorious smile where he mouths across Kendall’s jawline. Kendall does not like to lose, but he doesn’t mind this at all. He is jello in Logan’s hands, weak and shaky and completely blissed out. He makes this noise, yowls like a cat, fucks up into Logan’s hand and the ridiculous heat of Logan’s dick. His skin is slippery, sweaty, the night turned sweltering beneath the safehaven of Kendall’s comforter.  
  
He’s done this before, right here, even, but it’s different. Logan’s body is heavy, thick, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.  
  
His skin tastes clean and fresh and like home.  
  
Logan gasps, says, _Kendall_ , says _shit_ , and speeds up the pace of their interlocked fingers. A blossom of sticky, wet heat grows between them, and Logan is trembling, fucked out, and Kendall is still sliding against him, rutting into the mess of it, rhythm sloppy. Logan’s fingertip pushes into Kendall’s asshole, and he mumbles, pants, growls, “Come for me.”  
  
And so Kendall does, a supernova behind his eyes, electric blue and radioactive green, mimosa orange and red like blood on white pavement, white, white, white clouding the edges of it all until he can’t see anything, can’t think anything except, “ _Logan_.”  
  
He might even scream it.

\-----------

  
Once upon a time, a knight braved the vines, cut through the thorns, and somehow made it inside the hollow, empty halls of the castle. He stormed the fortress and invaded the little prince’s heart.  
  
The knight brought the little prince out into the open air, taught him about sunshine and laughter and all the things he’d forgotten there in the dark, cold walls of his Minnesota stronghold. In the face of the king and the queen and their unbearable grief, the knight was absolutely dauntless.  
  
He badgered the little prince with sleepover parties and hockey tryouts and snowball fights, worked up under his skin and left the sweetest of aches in his wake. He was, in a word, a miracle.  
  
Sometimes the king caught the little prince watching the knight like he was a hero, like he existed to slay dragons and wrestle anacondas and win every heart he ventured near. The space between his eyebrows furrowed. He gave the brave knight a suspicious glare, clapped a hand on the little prince’s shoulder and said, “Don’t disappoint us, son.”  
  
His meaning was clearer than the too-blue skies overhead.

  


\-----------

  
It happens again on a Tuesday night.  
  
And then Saturday.  
  
And Sunday too. Kendall doesn’t really understand how he gets into these situations. There is a very large possibility that he is a catastrophe magnet. He really should know better, but. There is something about danger, about the thrill of it that just makes his mind go absolutely blank. So he lets it go on and on and _on_.  
  
Well past midnight on a Thursday, Kendall’s phone buzzes. _We can’t keep doing this_.  
  
Logan, of course.  
  
Kendall rolls his eyes. He was kind of looking forward to a different kind of text. Just to be an ass, he types, _ooh, sexy, tell me more_.  
  
Logan is at his bedside in half a minute, saying, “Seriously. It has to stop.”  
  
“No it doesn’t. Look.” Kendall palms over the front of Logan’s pajamas, weirdly unable to keep his hands to himself. It’s like Logan has his own kind of gravity, and he keeps on pulling Kendall close whether Kendall wants to be there or not. Logan’s eyes flicker shut, an objection on his lips, but when Kendall’s fingers dip through the opening in his pants, it dissipates, and the thing, whatever it is, keeps happening.  
  
Friday.  
  
Saturday.  
  
Sunday.  
  
And again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.  
  
It gets bad, gets heavy, somewhere between the touch of their lips and the taste of their skin. Kendall starts thinking of Logan without meaning to, during rehearsals or dinner or their video tournaments. He wants to reach out and touch him, to brush their fingers together and twine them close, to kiss the shell of Logan’s ear and show everyone that Logan is his now.  
  
 _His_.  
  
Whenever Kendall is around him there is a star in his chest, a bright thing he swallows down because it is terrifying in its immensity. He thinks maybe this is something bigger than sex, bigger than flirty messages in their inboxes and the feel of Logan’s hand on his cock. But Kendall doesn’t say anything, because what is he supposed to say? _Hey, man, I think I might_ like you _like you_?  
  
Lame.  
  
He has time to think about it though; it takes them a while to work up to fucking, to Logan riding Kendall’s dick like this isn’t his first rodeo, and god, at this point, Kendall wouldn’t even be surprised to hear it. His fingertips dig into the shape of Logan’s hipbones, the universe spinning high and flighty above them, ceiling turned to stars, or maybe that’s just Kendall’s vision sparkling at the edges, his orgasm pressing in close.  
  
He draws Logan down, into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that deepens and makes Kendall feel raw all over, and then it _is_ all over, and they are shuddering against each other, lost in it.  
  
Logan tries to leave, afterwards, but Kendall won’t let him, still stuck between aftershocks that make his limbs quake. He clutches Logan tight to his chest, traps him in his arms, and after a brief skirmish that mostly involves tickling and yelps of laughter and languid kisses, Logan buries his head against Kendall’s collarbone, bites and sucks and murmurs sweet promises into the skin until he falls asleep.  
  
The following night, Kendall returns the favor, and it’s more awkward, because this is his first go at it, at letting someone take control of his body this way. It is invasive, intrusive, but _good_. So good. Kendall’s had Logan’s fingers deep inside him before, but it’s not the same; hotter, thicker, closer, somehow. He catches Logan’s breath in his lungs, holds it there while he works through the achestretch _pain_ ; adjusts to the weight and the pressure of his best friend fucking him open. Logan guides him through it, makes Kendall feel like his body has turned into a livewire, currents trembling through his limbs until they are jello, until he is melting into Logan, and Logan is absorbing him with every thrust of his hips. Kendall is hot, he is burning up from the inside, he can see fire behind his eyelids and he feels molten, feels shimmery, feels like he is riding the tail end of a meteor and about to let go.  
  
They are no longer best friends with a long, long history, but love, embodied, hearts and skin and unending, boundless _love_.  
  
That’s what this is, Kendall decides after he comes, white against Logan’s stomach and his own, sticky, squishing between them when they kiss. It is natural progression, really, everything he’s always thought about Logan in the back of his mind flooding forward, filling his chest, turned visceral and solid because of the way their bodies fit like they belong. Kendall _loves_ Logan, really, truly, like what people write sonnets for, like what they sing of at concerts, like movies are always on about. And it’s better than it’s ever been before, than any relationship Kendall has ever had. The trust he shares with Logan is deeper, implicit, and they already know how to function as a unit. During the day, they waste time talking, laughing, singing, studying, playing video games, being normal. At night, Kendall bites Logan’s name into his pillow, lets him take ownership in a way that Kendall never really knew would be something he likes, and he does, he loves it, loves letting Logan control him slow and steady and scorching hot.  
  
They don’t talk about it, don’t try to make sense of it, and sometimes Kendall wants to, because Logan has to know what it is they’re doing. He’s a genius. But Kendall can’t let go of the thought he had the first night that Logan came to his room, about magic spells.  
  
He doesn’t want to wreck this.  
  
He’s not sure if that’s a possibility, but sometimes he’ll walk into the kitchen and see Logan on the phone with his dad, the line of his jaw clenched tight, and he’ll remember how much pressure Logan is under; how hockey and the band and California weren’t exactly something his parents wanted him to do.  
  
How Kendall probably maybe is on that list of things that Logan isn’t supposed to be undertaking.  
  
On one particular instance, Kendall hears Camille’s name on Logan’s side of the conversation. Kendall must make a noise, because he sees Logan’s eyes dart up towards him and crinkle at the corners with fondness, just for a beat, before he tells his dad that his relationship is going great, and that’s _weird_. As far as Kendall knows, Logan broke up with Camille almost a month ago. Instead of asking who Logan is lying to, Kendall just rubs his shoulders, kisses the back of his neck feather light and ignores the way Logan goes rigid, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.  
  
 _Stop it_ , Logan mouths, and Kendall murmurs, “Make me.”  
  
“Who was that?” He hears over the phone, tinny and faraway.  
  
“Kendall,” Logan says, batting him away. “He’s fooling around.”  
  
“That kid always is,” his dad replies, and then Kendall backs off, because eavesdropping is unpleasant, and besides, he doesn’t need to listen in to know how Logan’s dad feels about him. He’s known since he was eight years old, back when the man treated him like a disease, like vermin.  
  
He’s a cardiothoracic surgeon with a booming voice and cold, cold eyes. Kendall’s never understood how Logan came from that man. He’s too sweet, too beautiful, too _warm_.  
  
After the conversation’s over, Logan tells Kendall where he can stick it, gets all flustered and cute and stutters through a rant until finally he gets overwhelmed with frustration and storms off. He is an entirely different person in the light of day than the man he becomes at night, strong and sure and sexy in a way that makes Kendall’s jeans go tight just to think of it. And that night, Kendall makes up for being an ass, says _sorry_ with his fingers and his legs and the press of his dick, and once with his mouth, mumbled into Logan’s sweat-slick skin. He says, “I didn’t know I was supposed to be a secret.”  
  
He’s joking around, trying to make light of the situation, because obviously a certain amount of secrecy is inherent to this kind of thing. But Logan won’t even let him have that. He says, “You can’t be anything else,” and when Kendall tries to argue, he swallows each protest down whole.

\-----------

  
You see, little princes are expected to marry little princesses.  
  
There’s nothing at all about them loving knights in the storybooks.

  


\-----------

  
The night it stops, Kendall isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. He thinks about going to Logan’s room, but he fools himself into thinking that maybe Logan just…fell asleep. He probably forgot their standing appointment for sex.  
  
That’s the kind of thing people can forget sometimes, right?  
  
Right?  
  
It’s a terrible thing, growing accustomed to the feeling of being needed only to find out that you’re not. The next afternoon, Kendall finds Logan sitting on the couch, a slew of textbooks open in front of him. Kendall isn’t going to ask, he isn’t, because they don’t talk about this when the sun is up, but he can’t help himself.  
  
“What happened last night?”  
  
Logan doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to the TV, some science show. Bacteria and viruses and things that look like alien creatures. Kendall sits down beside him and waits for an answer. He waits and waits until idly, Logan says, “My uncle died ten years ago today.”  
  
Kendall didn’t know that. He isn’t sure how to react. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be. I can’t…remember him, I guess? It’s all vague. He was fun to be around. So alive. Then he got sick, and…my dad was so mean. He said that he brought it on himself.”  
  
Kendall frowns. “How could he have-“  
  
“I think he was mad. Is mad. All that med school, and none of it helped. There was nothing he could do.” Logan folds his arms around his knees. “It’s why I want to be a doctor. Maybe next time, I can help.”  
  
Kendall reaches out, touches his shoulder, but Logan flinches away. “Don’t. We can’t.”  
  
“Logan.”  
  
“No, Kendall. I can’t. Dad told me this would happen, and I didn’t listen, and we _can’t,_ okay?”  
  
“Not _okay_. I have no idea what you’re on about. Could you just talk to me for real, please?” Kendall tries to get Logan to look at him, but he won’t, his eyes settling somewhere along the curve of Kendall’s ear. Kendall asks, “What does your dad have to do with anything? If he doesn’t like us, he can shove-“  
  
“No.” Logan says abruptly. He glances at the bacteria swimming across the television screen, then at the glaringly orange arm of the couch, and then his gaze settles back on Kendall’s ear. Slowly, he sounds out, “My uncle’s…boyfriend…he died. And then my uncle died. Dad never forgave either of them for it.”  
  
 _Oh_ , Kendall thinks. He sits there, dumbly, for a second, processing.  
  
He states, “Things are different now.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“We’re always safe.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“I wouldn’t- and you don’t-“  
  
“Kendall! You’re not _listening_. It doesn’t fucking matter. Dad won’t ever get over it, no matter how much progress there is.”  
  
“So? Who cares? Logan, _I love you_. Look at me.” Kendall places both hands on Logan’s cheeks. Steadily he repeats, “I love you,” and it’s terrifying, because Kendall doesn’t put himself out there like this, not ever.  
  
Not since he was young, and his own dad fucked him over, fucked him up, and he doesn’t like to think about that at all, but he is here, now. He’s putting himself on the line because Logan is worth it.  
  
This is the stuff fairytales are made of.  
  
Only, Logan says, “I can’t.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”  
  
Kendall’s hands drop to his side, mouth dropping open. Rejection is the last thing he expected, and maybe that’s his fault. He knows that Logan pretends to be the perfect son, and in a way, Kendall gets that, because he’s tried so hard for so long to be the quintessential son, brother, friend, boyfriend, _everything_. But over time, Kendall’s learned to admit that there are some things he’s not the greatest at, that sometimes he needs his mom or his baby sister or his friends, and he’s not sure that Logan’s learned that lesson yet.  
  
The truth of the matter is, Logan doesn’t like losing any less than the rest of them.  
  
“But, I-“  
  
“No.” Logan is steadfast. Kendall’s flinches, and he softens his tone. “Not even for you, Kendall,” he apologizes gently, earnestly, and directly to the curve of Kendall’s ear.  
  
Hotness pricks at his eyes, beneath his skin, and Kendall is embarrassed and humiliated, but for once those are not the emotions that matter the most. His fingers clench into fists, and he can’t figure out if he’s mad or sad or what this deep ache inside his chest is.  
  
Kendall thinks that this must what it feels like to have his heart broken.  
  
He doesn’t like it one bit. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way,” he says. “Fuck your dad, tell me that you don’t-“  
  
“ _Stop_.” Logan’s voice is clear, steady. Kendall’s ear isn’t good enough anymore; he’s back to watching the science channel, staring at it with tunnel vision. “Don’t make this worse than it is. We were just…messing around. It didn’t mean anything.”  
  
Anything.  
  
They didn’t mean _anything_.  
  
Kendall looks down at his phone, his stupiddumb _idiotic_ phone and wishes he’d never answered that text. He tells Logan, “Okay,” when really it’s not, it’s never okay.  
  
Not on stage.  
  
Not in the kitchen.  
  
Not splashing around in the pool or wrestling in the park.  
  
It doesn’t matter what they’re doing.  
  
It doesn’t matter where they are.  
  
Logan’s skin will brush against Kendall’s, and for a moment all he will think is that he wants, wants, _wants_. A million times every day, Kendall and Logan pass each other by and pretend to be made of stronger stuff than flesh and blood and the myriad things they really desire. They pretend they are perfect boys, _men_ their parents can be proud of, when inside they are so much less, so much _more_. They hide behind dimpled smiles and charming winks, hearts in their hands and blood betwixt their fingers. They hurt and they hurt and they smile through it, because that is how pain works.  
  
Smile and breathe.  
  
Smile and breathe.  
  
One day it will maybe even be enough.

\-----------

  
If this were a real fairytale, it would end in a kiss, but that’s not how this story works. The little prince grew into a big prince who went on to be king. He lived in a state full of sunshine and light, a place where the breeze smelled like salt and sweetness and possibilities. He moved into a castle that was big and airy and full of laughter and never ever cold at all. There he married a queen, a girl who was regal and beautiful and everything his father wanted. For the rest of his life, he pretended he was okay with the knight at his side, who stayed, faithfully, who stuck with him through it all.  
  
That knight. _That knight._ He was unendingly loyal and irrevocably broken. He was the breath of winter, the chill in the air and the first hint of summer glowing in the distance; the stormy intersection of sky and sea in the beginning of spring and the gold-red-gleam of leaves in the fall. He was a _constant_ reminder of the thing the prince had never been able to say out loud, what he kept close, the only secret he ever managed to keep. It was a thread of longing in his chest, tightening like a noose around his lungs.  
  
Of course, it was too late, far too late, but even when he was old, the prince-king-boy-man held the idea close; from the blue-ivory of the white knight’s eyelids to the crooked curve of his lips to the way he smiled, like lightning on the surface of the sea. That boy, that knight, _Kendall Knight_ was his valiant protector, his dragon slayer, his best friend and his hero. Giving him up was the worst decision the little prince ever made.  
  
Giving him up was the only decision Logan Mitchell could have made.  
  
Still, it remained true; he loved that stupid, brilliant, miracle of a knight with his whole heart, and he always would.  
  
Forever after.


End file.
